


Saturday Clothes

by spuffyduds



Category: due South
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Community: stop_drop_porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-09
Updated: 2010-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 01:52:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/pseuds/spuffyduds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was done for the stop_drop_porn challenge--I had 24 hours to write it after I got tagged.  Part of it was scribbled in the carpool lane at a middle school.  (I am SO going to hell...)  Anyway, the speed of writing is my excuse for why I completely lost track of Dief in the middle of the story.  I guess he stayed out in the hall for the last part? ;-)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Saturday Clothes

**Author's Note:**

> This was done for the stop_drop_porn challenge--I had 24 hours to write it after I got tagged. Part of it was scribbled in the carpool lane at a middle school. (I am SO going to hell...) Anyway, the speed of writing is my excuse for why I completely lost track of Dief in the middle of the story. I guess he stayed out in the hall for the last part? ;-)

It had really never occurred to Ray to think of Fraser that way, until today.

Because, for one thing, partners, and you don't _do_ that. But also because--Fraser was good-looking, yeah. Pretty, even. But in the uniform--even in the casual-for-Fraser clothes Ray's seen, he was beautiful in a don't-touch kind of way. Like, if you put a hand on him, a museum guard would step out from somewhere with a walkie-talkie and a hairy eyeball. Not a look that turns Ray's particular crank.

But now? Now Ray's standing in Fraser's not-really-a-bedroom, watching him put away his fresh-from-the-laundromat clothes (in a foot locker, like he was at _camp_) and Fraser's wearing a white t-shirt with _holes_, and jeans that are faded almost white too. And Ray thinks he's gonna _die_.

Fraser looks over at him, blinks--fuck, he was staring, wasn't he?--and sort of waves a hand vaguely at himself, says, "Sorry about..." And for a second Ray actually thinks he means, "Sorry about giving you a raging hard-on, there, buddy, does it _hurt_?" But then Fraser says, "I was washing everything--decent. I'll change before we go to lunch."

"You do that," Ray says. "And I'll, uh, hit the can."

He does a lightspeed jerkoff, a high-school jerkoff, with just enough time to think how the knees on Fraser's jeans are so worn only the sideways threads are left, and thank god that Turnbull hasn't gotten around to putting a portrait of the Queen in the _bathroom_ yet.

And when he gets back to Fraser's room Fraser's changed back into one of his flannel shirts with ironed creases and the dark stiff jeans that look fresh from the JC Penney lumberjack department, and everything's fine again.

Ray doesn't get back to his apartment until almost midnight, because lunch turns into a ten-mile Diefwalk, turns into a visit to the library, turns into Fraser being horrified that Ray doesn't have a library card, turns into Ray _getting_ a library card, turns into dinner, turns into a long lecture on Melville Dewey ("Or as he would have had it, Ray, M-E-L-V-I-L D-U-I") being "an early and enthusiastic proponent of spelling reform," which, _thanks_, Fraser.

So Ray's dropping off to sleep, wondering what the hell that was about--why some faded jeans had rewired his brain like that. Because, yeah, he knew some guys tripped his personal trigger, and in the last year he's done a little experimenting, but--Fraser? That was new.

And just before he falls into dreamland (which, lately, is populated with rubber ducks) he _gets_ it, he remembers, and he's wide awake again, because what he remembers is: Saturday Stella.

*******************************

For almost all of their marriage--up until the last year--he had no complaints about weeknights either. But weeknights were hard and fast, slamming into orgasms and slamming into sleep because they both had to work in the morning. But Saturday Stella? Saturday Stella took her _time_. She always woke up first; when he blinked awake she'd already have made coffee, already loaded up her weekday suits into a dry-cleaning pile by the door.

She'd come into the bedroom with his big coffee mug in her hand, and she'd be wearing faded jeans with holes in the knees, and one of Ray's police tees that had shrunk too much for him, and she'd give him his coffee and curl up beside him, and they'd just--neck, slow and thorough, no rush to get anywhere.

Or, the very best Saturdays, he'd wake up to find her already blowing him. Starting the day with her mouth, hotter even than usual from the coffee, licking and sucking and _tugging_, and he'd be half-hard and groaning by the time he could even figure out what was going _on_. He'd half-sit up, mumbling, "Stell," and something confused about love, and he'd reach for her, try to do something for _her_, and she'd stop for a second, give him that wicked grin nobody ever saw but him, and say, "Just lie there and be pretty, Ray," and _god_.

That last year, though. That last year, Saturday Stella went away, and every day was Monday morning Stella. And more and more, most days were Sunday-morning-hangover Ray, which he _knew_ just made Stella Mondayer and Mondayer, but he couldn't seem to stop.

He doesn't get bummed thinking about that tonight, though. Not like usual. Because he's thinking, is there a Saturday Fraser, different from the weekday Mountie one? A Fraser with thin soft faded jeans and all the time in the world? Can Fraser even maybe have, hidden away somewhere, a wicked grin? (Please?)

This is a bad thing to be thinking about, Ray knows. But he really, really enjoys it.

*****************************************************

He thinks it'll be easier on him, the next Saturday, because it won't be a surprise, he's prepared for Fraser in his laundry-doing clothes. But when Fraser's crouched down in his faded jeans, stowing things in the footlocker, Ray starts thinking about how, when cloth's worn that thin, the heat comes through so easy--how, if he put a hand on Fraser's thigh right now, the tensed muscles would just be--_simmering_ under there.

Ray hits the bathroom again. And when he comes back Fraser's changed to his "nicer" clothes again, yeah. But this time Fraser keeps--looking at him funny, and _sniffing_.

_OH_ dear, Ray thinks. And then: I have definitely been hanging around Fraser too much.

They spend the whole day together again anyway.

Wednesday or so Ray's sitting at his desk, and looks down at himself and realizes that he wears Saturday clothes pretty much every day, unless he's got to go to court. And he wonders if Fraser gets…affected by that. Does Fraser _have_ an affected to _get_?

The next Saturday Ray's somehow let his laundry go _way_ too long, and all he's got left to wear is his most ancient surviving pair of jeans. Which are kinda tight--believe it or not he used to be _skinnier_\--and kneeless, and starting to get these really thin spots right under the ass, that could just _go_ any second. And one of his Bulls tees, that's old and thin and shredded.

And this Saturday, when he and Fraser leave the consulate for lunch, Fraser hasn't changed out of his laundry-doing, beat-up clothes. Doesn't apologize for them, doesn't even seem to notice what he's got on.

After lunch they drop into the whole routine again, walking Dief all over the damn city, and at first it seems normal. They always bump into each other a lot, and this time Ray's feeling jittery and bouncy and he ends up circling Fraser while they're walking, throwing little jabs at his chest, and Fraser's throwing pretty decent blocks and they're laughing. But somewhere in there things just...slide a little past normal. Fraser's grabbing his arms during the jabs sometimes, hanging on longer than he has to, and a couple of times when Ray connects he'll leave his hand there, spread his fingers out flat for a few seconds on Fraser's chest.

Ray can't figure out what the fuck they're doing for a while, because if it's flirting it's some _new_ kind, but after Fraser gives him a little head slap and leaves his fingers twisted in Ray's hair for a few seconds, Ray gets it: they're playing chicken. Waiting for one of them to get scared and stop, or to say--hey, back off, this is a little past normal.

But neither of them does. They keep jabbing and shoulder-punching and stumbling into each other, and every time the contact lasts a few seconds longer. And then Fraser says, "You know, I think Dief's had enough of a walk for today, and aren't we near your apartment, Ray?"

When Ray's trying to get his key in the lock, Fraser puts his hands on the door on either side of him, leans in; he's so close his breath is ruffling Ray's hair. And that's it, that's really over the line, and _partners,_ _bad_ idea. Ray spins around to explain this, really, but when he does Fraser's _there_, and Ray was right about the thin fabric and the body heat because Fraser's not actually touching him anywhere but Ray can feel the heat coming off him, the whole length of his body.

Fraser just stays there, leaning in, an inch away, and Ray has never lost a game of chicken in his life so he leans too, takes away that inch. Their mouths meet and it's warm, Ray presses a little and Fraser opens up. Fraser tastes like cheeseburger but that's okay because Ray does too.

The kissing goes on for what's probably a long time before Ray remembers that they're, oh yeah, in the hallway of his apartment building. He pulls himself off Fraser's mouth, with a little popping noise, and finally fumbles the door open.

When they're inside Fraser's on him again, without a sound, pushing him against the wall and _up_ a little with his body, and Ray's feet lift just slightly off the floor, which is weird but okay. More kissing, harder this time, and Ray forgets about the cheeseburger because he's just thinking hot and tongue and slip and slide, and he gets his hands on Fraser's ass. And yeah, the jeans are so worn they feel almost furred under his hands, he could leave those on a while, and then Jesus, what was he thinking, they need to come off _right now_.

He starts trying to pull them off without taking his mouth off Fraser's or remembering that he's not really standing up, himself, and they get knees tangled together and crash onto the floor.

"I'M FINE!" Ray yells into the floorboards.

"OKAY!" his landlady yells back up.

Ray keeps working on Fraser's stupid jeans, which is harder now because Fraser's laughing and it makes his zipper shake. And for a second Ray almost gets embarrassed, almost stops, because the laughing makes it real somehow, really the two of _them_, but then Fraser's unzipping _Ray_, okay, forge ahead.

They get pants and shirts and socks and shoes off, and Fraser's actually _flinging_ things, damn. And Ray notices that under their broken-down old clothes they're both wearing pretty new-looking underwear, huh. Then stops noticing clothes at all because Fraser's hand is _in_ Ray's underwear, and getting rid of it, and getting all over Ray, and Fraser's hand is. Is a good thing, and a large thing and hot, and Ray likes it.

Fraser's moving his hand and kissing Ray's neck and talking softly to him, do you know what you do to me, Ray? All the time? You make me think about this, want to do this, want my hands and my mouth on you, just like this, wanted it for months, Ray.

The hand on his cock is so good, squeezing and stroking and pulling, that it takes Ray a minute to even sort out what he's hearing, and then he hears _months_ and that's better than the hand, right there, and Ray's coming.

Makes a mess all over his stomach and chest and Fraser's hand. Fraser grabs his jeans and sort of swabs him off, and now Fraser's jeans are a sticky mess, and Fraser can never leave Ray's apartment. Okay.

Ray just flops there on the floor for a minute until his heart rate calms down, and looks at Fraser, who's giving him this sort of wary face, like he expects Ray to suddenly notice, "Oh, my God, we are having SEX! Leave at once!"

Ray flips him over on his back, enjoys the startled whumpf of breath that comes out of him, kisses him more on his face and neck and nipples. The nipples make Fraser really squirmy, and Ray files that for later and nibbles his stomach and down, and Fraser says, "You don't have to--"

"Know that. Want to," and Ray gets his mouth around Fraser's cock and Fraser stops making sentences and starts making noises. I should try this during the next Inuit story, Ray thinks. "You know, Ray, when the caribou herds grow too thin the InuGOD, AGH, OOOOH, GOD." That would be fun.

Ray's done this before but not with an uncut guy and it's a little weird at first, different, like maybe he's got his mouth on the wrong _part_ or something, but he gets used to it and Fraser is still making noises that Ray's pretty sure translate to "My, you certainly are doing this correctly, yes indeed," and then makes a really loud weird sort of bellowing noise and shoots off, for a long time. Ray just barely manages not to have a coughing fit, which he is _not_ going to do because Fraser would apologize for six weeks.

"ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE OKAY?" comes from downstairs.

"FINE! GREAT! PRACTICING A MOOSE CALL!" Ray yells back, and scrambles Fraser, limp and laughing, to his feet, and half-carries him into the bedroom. Using the bed will almost have to be quieter, and if Fraser keeps calling moose Ray can always gag him.

 

\--END--


End file.
